Brookline
by Mrs. Handsome
Summary: Lucy Snowe, the stoic heroine of Charlotte Bronte's underdog, Villette, appears once again in twenty-first century America. This time, lacking in age and gaining in modern advances, our Lucy has not, however, lost the quality of her character. Lucy/Emmanuel
1. Journeying On

It would not have been as uplifting to board a plane to America, if they did not provide a multitude of hot, boiling coffee, seemingly brewed only for those wishing to catch up on work; or perhaps even avoid sleep in a claustrophobic area with several other people snoring around them. The flight attendant set up the steaming complimentary cups on the silver trolley, dull underneath the low inset lights. I would not say she did not uphold the same fake pleasantries of the majority of her kind, but it was almost comforting to see her tuck a strand of caramel hair behind her ear, attempting to stifle a broad, impending yawn. She bustled around with a package of biscuits on the second shelf of the trolley, and placed a stack of napkins and straws atop it.

My head fell numbly to my hand, holding it up until I found myself suppressing my own yawn. I decided to indulge in a little rest of eye, keeping myself awake with thoughts of all the passengers reaching our destinations at once, exchanging sleepy smiles with strangers and stiff, polite stances as some struggle to pull their luggage down from their top compartments.

I was fortunate enough to attain a seat of passage next to a quiet girl of a, most likely, talkative nature. It amused me once she sat, as she almost instantaneously fell into slumber, her own head resting on a doughnut-shaped pillow, and long, blonde hair cascading down her back and about her face with loose curls. How exactly could she sit, nonetheless _sleep_, with a tight, button up blouse, and short, denim trousers? Not to mention the inconvenience of her footwear. As I recall when she first dropped into deep slumber, she wore thin, flimsy rubber sandals, dangling from her toes and boasting a loud, pink colour.

"Coffee?" the tired stewardess tapped me on the shoulder warily and then leaned backwards, a delicate finger resting on one of the lids of the cups for emphasis. I nodded lightly, reaching over to set down the airplane tray before accepting the now, slightly cool, drink. "Would you like a cookie with that?" she inquired, holding up a package of miniature chocolate chip biscuits. "Er…no, thank you." My voice, despite my awakened state, sounded raspy and sleep-ridden. "Are you sure?" her own voice began to return to its previously perky demeanour, as she lifted up three more packages. "We have peanut butter, sugar, and oatmeal as well, miss." She persisted. For a reason unknown to even myself, I smiled slightly at the corners of my lips, and took a crumbling oatmeal cookie with a napkin, her oval, manicured nails grazing the palm of my hand. "Thank you…."

She rolled away with the trolley, a relieved expression gracing her face. I wasn't quite sure what to do with the unwanted biscuit then, so I placed it on the napkin, forgotten, and took a tentative sip of the coffee. Immediately, the bitter, creamy liquid scalded my tongue. Not too atrocious, though. It tasted of cinnamon? Perhaps some dark chocolate as well. It wasn't too long until the cup grew empty, and was set complacently next to the untouched biscuit.

The girl in the neighbouring seat began to stir, her legs twisting almost grotesquely between the floor and her carry-on bag, or rather purse. It most likely contained a loud print or pattern on the inside…interesting how a quiet individual could seem quite so indefinitely loud…

My own eyes were fluttering softly, like tiny feathers brushing away the harsh airplane air on my pale cheeks. In foresight, I commend myself for staying up quite so long, as I recall, the last time I took a peek at my wristwatch, and it was half past twelve…Yet, sleep overtook me, as quickly as the obscure, black cloak of night captures death.

* * *

I awoke to the sound of what appeared to be a digital camera, but muffled in a cacophonous chord, not quite pleasing to my ears.

Gradually, my eyelids lifted just enough so that I could peer at close sight without anyone suspecting me of awakening at all. The inadequate comfort of my position didn't exactly occur to me until I only slightly shifted my arm to the left, rolling my shoulder into a state of relaxation, and wincing at the responding "pop". The stony gray tray in front of me, as though it were a malignant guard or gate of some sort, was pinning both of my arms to my shoulder in a painful, albeit awkward, position. To somewhat release the aching limbs from its embrace, sliding upwards in the seat seemed like the best possible option, and as I did, relief immediately rushed to my sore shoulders and neck.

The clicking camera noise apparently ceased as I did so, and I reflexively turned my head in its lack of direction. At the same time, I noticed the bitter, old taste of sweet coffee from a few hours before spoiling my tongue. For a second, I longed for one of those complimentary miniature toothbrushes and toothpastes.

"Oh, I see you've woken up."

The voice startled me, although the girl's direction had already received my stare. Now that she was awake, her hair was swept up off her face in a high ponytail, and a fresh coat of shiny lip-gloss had been applied to her lips. "What exactly did you think you were doing?" My voice came out a tad brusquer and accusative this time, and I regretted the impulsive speech as she slowly leaned to the side opposite me in her seat.

"What…what d'you mean?" She was tapping at her phone furiously now, a slow start of a smirk growing on her face.

"I'm sorry…that…that noise you were making, it was sort of irritating me."

"This?"

Suddenly an image of a white ghost above a yellow background and a list of names appeared quite close to my face on her phone screen. "I'm sorry, I thought you were still sleeping, so I was Snapchatting one of my friends…" she giggled nervously. "I, um…I didn't mean to bother you."

At this, I began to doubt my involvement in the modern age, and I looked at her as though she were communicating to me in a foreign language. "What is Snapchat, might I ask?"

The girl raised one, drawn-on eyebrow, and then began to tap furiously at her phone once she came to the realization of the seriousness of my ignorance to social media. "Yes, yes you may ask…"

With a grin, she tapped her temples with one, slim finger and read, "Snapchat is a photo messaging app developed by Robert Murphy and Evan Spiegel. Using this application, users can take photos/videos, add text and/or drawings, and then send them to a controlled list of recipients. The photographs and videos sent are called "Snaps". Users of Snapchat can set a time limit for the amount of time the recipient has to view the snap (between 1 and 10 seconds). After viewing, the photo or video is deleted from Snapchat's servers and the recipient's device."

I blinked. "That sounds…very, er…..crafty…"

She nodded vigorously and pointed to a spot on her screen I could not see. "Another controversy veiling Snapchat's rising popularity in the United States is sexting, a phenomenon involving the exchange of explicit pornographic images, usually amongst teenagers. Often, those pictures shared on Snapchat escape the comfort of its deletion from the user's device due to the option of _screenshotting_, which is where people take a picture of the Snapchat on the screen. Although Snapchat enables the picture's view for only literally, a few seconds, it does not prevent screenshotting."

"And this is supposed to be _enjoyable_, you say?" The pitch of my voice cracked a bit as I attempted to contain all of the information she just engulfed my mind with.

"Well, not that many people actually use Snapchat for sexting anymore, it's mostly just for taking funny pictures and sending them to friends so they can't use it later for blackmail or anything, right?" Her words tumbled out in quite a rush, so much so that I wondered how one of her American origin (although I am simply assuming such by her accent) could withstand the rate of words per second.

"Um, right." I said quite unconvincingly. There remained a short silence afterward, in which I stared awkwardly at my palms, scolding myself for engaging in such an unprofessional conversation and yet seeming quite innocent compared to my partner in conversation, despite my age of twenty-two. Although, I wasn't exactly sure of her age. She seemed to be fairly younger than me, but if we were to have the same number of years, I'm positive her winsome assertiveness painted a younger portrait of herself to strangers.

"Are you going to eat that?"

Once again, her voice permeated my thoughts, although I did not mind the interruption, considering the borderline discomfort of the silence between us. "Pardon?" I replied offhandedly. She pointed to the lone oatmeal cookie on my tray.

"I'm afraid if you don't take it, it will end up in the trash." With a rush of relief, I passed her the small package containing the cookie.

"Thanks, I'm absolutely _starving_." She groaned, ripping open the package and devouring the cookie in a matter of seconds, and only two bites. "I'm sorry, I just haven't eaten in a while, I slept through lunch and dinner." Her apologies didn't seem any less sincere through the crumbs muffling her speech, although it did almost incite a laugh within _me_.

"It's…quite alright. I didn't exactly catch your name either?" I stated in an unsure tone of voice, attempting to prevent any nature of eagerness in our conversation.

"Ezra Fanshawe, I'm sure you won't have to catch it, if I just hand it to you." She grinned, in a way that seemed to fully exude, "_My jokes are terrible, but I laugh at them anyway_."

"Ezra?" Curiously, the question already flew to the tip of my tongue and from my lips before I could stop it.

"Short for Ginevra, positively the most insufferably old-lady-ish name in the history of the planet, barely surpassing _Gertrude_." She spat. "So, yes, Ezra, nothing more, nothing less! And you are?"

I have never met someone so inquisitive and harsh, while still ensuring the charm and femininity of one lacking the former. Therefore, I felt compelled to answer her and produce conversation out of thin air, as I do with many others of her kind. Although, this Ezra did entertain me in a way unknown to even myself in the ways that she unintentionally parodied most of her kind. "Lucy Snowe." I answered simply, my hands mechanically finding the paper coffee cup on my airplane tray, and crumpling it at my side before clicking said tray back into place.

"Lucy Snowe? Not to be rude or anything, but that name is just so…I don't know, man. It just sounds like something out of a Charlotte Bronte love story of something, no offense. But, who could really be offended by Charlotte Bronte? I swear out of all those prancy British Victorian writers she's the most bada-" Ezra caught herself, and flushed, her proclamation ending in a knowing, clever laugh.

"You read Charlotte Bronte?" My words formed the question almost accusingly, daring a girl with looks as she to admit to reading such classics as the lady beyond her time.

"If the shoe fits, _wear it_."

I, Lucy Snowe, somehow have a burgeoning affection for this Ezra Fanshawe.

* * *

**Author's Note**- This is a fanfiction for a work of Charlotte Bronte's, Villette, which, as most books of its kind, is not placed as a category on this site. So, I put it under misc. since that seemed like the best option for now. Yes, this is quite different from my HP fanfiction of the past, but trust that I have not lost loyalty to my OTF, this fanfiction, is in fact, a project for school. How exciting is it that you can have my first hand sarcasm and witty author's notes again! (Not very.) As usual, thank you for reading. :)


	2. An Unwelcome Destination

I find standing restlessly in the baggage area the most despicable, irritating component of my day, perhaps even my week. Ezra, on the other hand, had no trouble finding her amass of luggage, all of which was plastered in leopard print in varying shades of pink.

"You should have really used bags that are easier to point out!" she reprimanded lightly, straightening her jean shorts back to a comfortable length.

"Honestly." I started wearily. "I _really_ don't think bright pink leopard print is my style, thank you." My carry-on bag, as they called it, was simply a small, black athletic backpack, filled mainly with the books I read on the plane ride, as well as my mobile phone and emergency information and money. The _essentials_…Ezra? Not quite as compact and useful.

"Well, next time, be sure to tie a colourful ribbon around it or something. You do realize, we've been waiting here for about ten minutes already?"

"Yes, yes, alright." Waving her off, I headed closer to the sadistic merry-go round of luggage; hoping to find mine in the amass of strangers' items. "You really don't have to follow me around, you know, in fact, _where are your parents_, might I ask?"

"Jesus, you sound so _British_!" she exclaimed, to my utter annoyance, or rather a confusing mixture of amusement and the aforementioned. "I travelled here, by myself, if you _may ask_. I'm seventeen years old, I'm most definitely more than capable. In fact, I can't possibly be any more responsible at my age. How old are you, thirty?"

For some reason unknown to even myself, I followed her demand with an unintentionally self-conscious peek down at myself. My age couldn't _possibly_ seem quite that high, and my light blue jeans and grey oversized sweatshirt didn't speak any middle-aged volumes either. "Twenty-two."

"Ah, I knew it."

"You just told me you thought I was thirty years old! I mayn't be the best at maths, but that's quite a far stretch from twenty-two, thank you very much!" I blurted out.

Her laugh was a stark resemblance of an asthmatic hospital patient, although still somewhat ladylike in its disposition. "I only said that just to see your reaction."

I sighed, turning my back to her and focusing my stare on the ever so slowly rotating luggage. "Great."

"Oh, I found your luggage!" she shouted, pointing at a gargantuan electric blue bag, which most definitely could not have been under my possession.

"Your _reaction_, Lucy." Her smile was anything but toothy, yet not thin-lipped either. Somewhere between wholesome and flirtatious. "I actually did find it though. It's _over yonder_, as you Brits like to say!"

Ignoring her, I stalked over to the said bags, attempting to muster as much possible dignity as I could to retrieve them, and relishing in the fact that she did not follow me. Returning, I shot back, "We _Brits_ actually do _not_ like to say."

A smirk perked up the corners of her rosy lips. "Alright then, Miss Lucy. I'm sure you'll get out of your grumpy state soon; maybe you just need some coffee? Or that _cookie_ you gave me earlier?"

"I dunno why, but I can't seem to shake you off..." I muttered under my breath, just loud enough for her to hear my words.

"Maybe it's my effortless charm and attraction!" she exclaimed, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder dramatically. "Trust me; I'm sure we'll be the best of friends."

This time, I laughed, a bit dryly if I might add. "Alright, let's start weaving our 'BFF' bracelets now, then, bosom friend." I began to roll my suitcases forward, walking at a slow pace.

"Oh, right, we probably should get to our rides..." she agreed to herself, rolling a cartful of her own bags forward as well. "Where are you headed?"

I froze. The question I'd expected much earlier into the conversation had been popped, and quite frankly, as loudly as a hot pink Disney Princess balloon at a toddler's birthday party. For, dear reader, if I were to answer her question most honestly it would involve a jumble of abstracted ambition and would, most likely create the most unorganized and unprepared vision of myself. So, likewise, I followed her inquiry with a silence, pretending to be engaged with a loose wheel on my suitcase, while she furrowed her eyebrows and pushed harder on hers.

"Well," She continued. "I'm going to Brookline Hall Academy, or rather—" she caught herself. "_Returning _there for my senior year. Our spring break is pretty late."

"Brookline Hall Academy?" The name piqued my interest. "Is that a boarding school of some sort?"

"All-girls boarding school, yeah..." her eyes rolled dramatically with her affirmation. "We only get to see guys on breaks like these, it sucks. But, when we do..." she put a finger to her neck, and smoothed down her shirt, revealing a small silver heart pendant with what seemed to be a name engraved on the front in tiny cursive. She caught my eye and smirked once again. "Adam gave this to me when I saw him a couple days ago in New York."

"Is that your boyfriend?" Once again, '_curiosity kills the cat_' I attempted to remind myself, yet the past, present, and future seemed to be oh so attracted to my listening ear. Yet another smirk. I figured if our conversation remained on this topic, the smirk would also remain fixated on her pale features.

"I wouldn't exactly call him that..." A grin now. "But, you seem a bit prudish, so I suppose at your standards, yes, he is sort of my boyfriend." Ezra teased. At this point, we'd reached the revolving door to exit the terminal, and she pushed slowly through, cart-first, leaving the door barely an inch away from my face.

"That's a fairly expensive gift for someone who is only _sort of_ your boyfriend." Her easy-going manner directed towards this...this _Adam _person, bothered me greatly for some reason. Perhaps it was my assumption that she lacked both the commitment and the maturity to maintain a relationship that easily, but it was most definitely not envy, reader, I can assure you that. How could I possibly envy someone like her when my own aspirations lie much farther down the line from hers?

"Like I said. P-R-U-D-I-S-H, Lucy Sno-" At this point, she cut the conversation short due to the rapid buzzing of what was apparently her mobile phone in her back pocket. "_Ugggghhhhhh."_ She groaned in annoyance, tapping at the screen with that clicking noise I knew so well from the airplane ride. "My dad says he's too busy at work to pick me up from this place. I'm going to have to get a taxi..." Fishing a couple ten dollar bills out of her other back pocket, Ezra motioned to me once more. "Do you have a ride?"

"Just taxi." I replied simply, not quite on the verge of acidity.

"Ah, I suppose we'll be riding together, then." She moved forward as though she were about to link arms and then suddenly thought better of it, raising her hand up for a taxi moving in line behind the bustle of businessmen and the occasional young family returning home or switching flights. The taxi inched its way up in line until it reached us, and she pulled open the trunk, waiting expectantly for the driver to carry in her bags.

"Need help, miss?" the driver then turned to me, as he pushed Ezra's empty cart off the pavement.

"No, I've got it." I said pointedly, as Ezra's head disappeared into the car, lifting my own bags into the practically full trunk. Why exactly did she need so many things? All I possessed fit perfectly well in two suitcases and my book bag, I've no possible notion of what she could do in presumably a week with three suitcases, one carry-on, and another handbag.

It wasn't until my feet and legs were settled comfortably in the taxi, and my head rested lightly on the window, that the idea of my destination shocked me. Or, rather, lack of destination. I could not just tell the driver to drop me off in the general area of a destination, to truly find myself I'd have to narrow it down spontaneously. And, that, my readers; that created a tight bundle of worries deep within me that could only grow larger.

* * *

"Where are you going, Lucy." This time Ezra's question was phrased as a statement, as if all association with my being were to diminish if I were to not answer with enough conviction. This time, just this once, I felt compelled to answer, despite my lack of one. So, I provided as much truth as I could with a naïve tone. "I don't know…" My mumbling has now reached a new level of indistinguishable speech, and she definitely understood it as nothing less than such.

"Sorry, I didn't really catch that…where are you going, again?" she persisted.

My panic has now reached a new level of indistinguishable worriment, and she definitely understood it as nothing less than such. "Why must I answer to you, a seventeen year old schoolgirl I've literally _just_ met today?" Why did I feel compelled to answer? This question seemed to direct itself both to me and my newly christened partner in crime (if weary travelling is considered a criminal activity). I stalled for time, hoping to God that I wouldn't have to answer. Am I really such an antisocial being? Such an awkward force of a human that I can't even find the words to say to someone five years my junior? What am I doing? _What am I doing?_"What am I doing?!" I blurted.

"Um….what?" Ezra blinked her long lashes, precariously coated with smudged mascara. "I don't know, I was the one that asked you the question first?"

"Nevermind…" I said. "I don't….I'm not quite sure of what-"

"Alright!" The cab driver interrupted my mumbling discord of an answer. "We've reached our destination of Brookline Hall Academy, that'll be $12 per passenger." He was a middle-aged man with greying hair and a potbelly, one that so obviously boasted a love for food instead of alcoholic drinks somehow. He stretched his arm back in the direction of our seats, and wordlessly, Ezra handed him the two ten dollar bills, that had been crumpled in her hands along the ride. "Keep the change!" Her accusing voice from our previous conversation had somehow disintegrated into a cheerful one, reminiscent of the tired stewardess bearing coffee on our plane trip.

"Oh, thank you, sweetheart." The driver droned on, still shaking his hand expectantly for the second payment, while I rummaged in my own bag.

"Oh!" Ezra caught on. "She's not...we're not-"

"Here." I passed him two folded ones and a ten and he stuffed the money in a compartment before easing himself out of the driver's seat.

"Lucy, what are you doing?" she got out of the car and lifted up the trunk, while the driver began removing her bags and setting them down wheels-first on the concrete. I did not respond, and instead observed my surroundings. The building, recognized as the boarding school, was somehow smaller than I thought it would be; although I suppose it I did not quite account for its height, as it were a five story construction of brick and stone. This leap into unwavering confidence would most likely stand alone for long, considering Ezra's most persistent inquiry of my presence in her school. However, the driver soon drove off with a pleasant smile lifting his apple cheeks, probably happy for the extra eight dollars added to his salary for the day.

"Lucy…?" Now, I could sense a tone of fear and unsure worry in Ezra's voice, which, as I had predicted, immediately inciting guilt in my entire being, to which a wrecking tantrum of unwelcomed tears ended our conversation. I began to doubt all of my actions for that day, not unusual for that fact, although unusual for its presentation to a young lady I have just recently met.

Fits usually did not introduce themselves as commonplace throughout my life, but I do recall my godmother speaking of them in my childhood in hushed voices below the stairs. The unfamiliar convulsions weakened my legs, and dizzied my mind, until eventually I could only hear Ezra Fanshawe falling to her knees, shaking one whose eyes could not see.


End file.
